


Forever Yours (fit each other's frequency)

by lightningstriker



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, The Like
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningstriker/pseuds/lightningstriker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hipster!au</p>
<p>four lives tangled up together in a mess of colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever Yours (fit each other's frequency)

**Author's Note:**

> title from forever yours by alex day.

Ryan’s woken by the rain against his window, a soft patter-patter which is just loud enough to stop him from falling asleep again, however enticing the still-warm bed covers are. Eyes still misty with sleep, he struggles to a sitting position and checks the time on his phone; half ten. He’s picking Z up from the airport at four, but until then he’s got several hours to himself.

He sits on the edge of his bed and runs a hand through his hair, looking absently out of the window. The sky is a swirling grey, brighter than a summer’s day and threatening to give him a migraine if he stares for too long. Shivering, he stands up and closes the shutter, leaving his room barely lit, dim and dark. He stumbles a few times while looking for a blanket, but he eventually finds one of Z’s discarded cardigans, from her grunge phase, and shrugs it on. He feels slightly ridiculous, but the cardigan is warm and still smells faintly of Z (vanilla and lipstick and cherry candy and fresh ink), and it isn’t as if anyone can see him, anyway.

He goes downstairs and switches on the coffee machine. It makes a weird whirring noise that still doesn’t manage to diminish the empty silence that has pervaded the house since Z left, three weeks ago. Ryan is possibly missing her more than he will ever admit; he forgot how little noise he himself makes, on his own. He sighs, and leans over the kitchen counter to press ‘play’ on the stereo. 

He hasn’t touched it for a while, and he’s not surprised when Maxwell’s Silver Hammer fills the room. Just before Z left, there had been an impromptu Beatles party in the lounge, and half the block had turned up. Ryan vaguely remembers a long, serious, but extremely drunken, conversation with Gabe Saporta from number 27 about John Lennon’s somewhat hypocritical tendencies, but mostly he recalls watching Z and Tennessee giggle in a corner, and trying to hide a smile. 

Around eleven, the doorbell rings, and Ryan wonders if Z’s back early as he fumbles at the lock. He never bothers to look through the peephole, mostly because it got painted over after an unfortunate incident involving a lot of Jon’s weed and some forgotten paints in the garage. 

The last person he’s expecting is Brendon, carrying an umbrella twice the size of him, with a smile that’s almost as blinding as the sky. He looks ridiculously happy, and Ryan quells the sudden feelings he doesn’t want to name rising up in his heart, because, um, no. 

“Hey, Ryan!” Brendon says. He’s rocking gently back and forward on his heels, his whole body so full of energy that Ryan wishes he was wearing sunglasses. Sometimes, he’s a little scared of getting burnt by Brendon; or worse, of burning Brendon. Of snapping something in their fragile existence and ruining everything they’ve carefully built together, of tripping and making a mistake. Ryan has fucked up so much in his life, it’s got to the point where he just expects things will go wrong.

“Hey,” he replies, “um. Spencer’s not here?”

Brendon frowns, “I know,” the smile returns, a little less blinding but softer, somehow, “I came to see you. Because it is raining and it’s a beautiful day and you’re not going to spend it moping indoors because Z’s not here yet.”

“I’m not moping,” Ryan tries to protest, except he kind of is, fuck it, “whatever. I can mope if I want.”

“Sure you can,” Brendon agrees, nodding gravely, “but you can also come for a walk with me.” He looks down for a moment, and it’s the first time Ryan’s ever seen Brendon shy. It’s improbably adorable. “You know. If you wanted to?”

There is no way Ryan can say no, not to Brendon, standing on his porch with a ridiculous umbrella and a shy smile, a hand twisting nervously at the edge of his hoodie. Hating himself a little for being such a sap, Ryan nods. 

Brendon doesn’t _quite_ jump up and down punching the air, but he comes very close. He pauses for a moment, and adds, “You may want to get dressed first, though. Not that you don’t look lovely in tatty plaid pyjama pants and Z’s cardigan.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan says, but he can’t help smile a little as he turns away and leads Brendon inside. He realises he’s still clutching his coffee mug, and wonders if there’s any coffee left in the pot for Brendon, before realising that Brendon and coffee is probably not the best mix.

“Spencer bought hot chocolate,” he says instead, once they’re in the kitchen, “help yourself.”

He gets dressed quickly, slipping on a shirt, a waistcoat he got for Christmas and some skinny jeans that look like they belong to William, and after a moment’s thought adds the tiniest bit of black eyeliner. He hasn’t touched his make up for years, but he’s beginning to feel like he needs something in between him and Brendon. Something to hide behind.

As he’s walking downstairs he hears Brendon’s voice, clear and achingly familiar, but it isn’t until he’s halfway to the kitchen that he recognizes the song.

“ _Now that it’s raining more than ever_  
you can stand under my umbrella  
ella   
ella.”


End file.
